


The voice in your head

by JoCarthage



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q joins James on an assignment to stop hackers from turning off every stoplight in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The voice in your head

**Author's Note:**

> I struggled over what nationality to make the bad guys here, and I decided on Qatar because I lived there and am kind of into the write-what-you-know thing. Half-a-dozen Western universities have satellite campuses in Doha, Qatar, including leading CS school Carnegie Mellon, so a bunch of world-class hackers coming out of Doha makes sense to me. I’m sorry if my depiction of them comes off bad, I’m happy to chat with anyone who has concerns. On a lighter note, roughly inspired by this gifset [http://tuma2-sama.tumblr.com/post/35820161787/in-which-q-has-to-join-007-on-a-mission-and-hes] which came from a friend without a tumblr but with a mad imagination and amazing writing skilz. Also, I know this isn’t how T-1 lines work. Just humor me.
> 
> Also, come say hi on tumblr! I'm generally at jocarthage.tumblr.com

Q was out of his lair, which would have shocked Bond if he was a man given to feeling shock. Like seeing a tiger strolling down the sidewalk—or a pelican at the zoo. But he’d been out of time to explain how to stop the Qatari hackers from taking over all of the stoplights in London and so he’d zipped out—riding a stunningly inappropriate Vespa—and crowded into the flat where Bond was laying, eye on the scope and finger on the trigger-guard, looking at a group of uni students in the building across from him, trying to take over the world by fucking up the traffic. He’d said he needed a clearer eye on the situation and the room’s T-1 line, but he made all kinds of excuses to come into the field these days.

Q had pounded on the door and Bond declined to get up. The door had been locked when he’d gotten here, and if Q couldn’t figure it out, he wasn’t worth the time it would take them both for Bond to get up and help him. 

The jingle-jangle of the doorknob hitting the floor, briefly preceded by the hiss of what sounded like a laser turning perfectly good wood into charcoal, and Bond had heard the soft steps of the owner of the voice in his head approaching him. He expected Q to walk directly to the T-1 hook-up he’d finagled MI6 into installing in every safe house, but he didn’t. He stepped softly to Bond’s side, and crouched down, left hand balancing on Bond’s lower back, right dangling lazily by his knee.

“So those are the chaps who’re trying to turn London dark?”

Bond grunted, and re-adjusted his eye at the eyepiece. He hadn’t reacted when Q’s freezing pinky-finger slipped under the hem of his hiked-up shirt, but he noticed it. Q pressed his entire hand flat on Bond’s back for a moment, and then pushed up, swinging his messenger bag around him and sliding his laptop out, pulling out cords and back-up power sources and, yes, Bond just heard the tell-tale click of plastic, the toy TARDIS which usually sat on the corner of his desk, in the only place in the room visitors couldn’t see, but which Bond had when he’d taken Q over that desk during a scheduled 500 second camera black out which Q may or may not have arranged.

Suppressing a smirk, Bond muttered to M:

“The hostages are still in place. They’re tied to the window frames, though I can make out the hackers behind them.” Bond could hear Q typing at what sounded like a million words a minute behind him.

“Could you get Al-Ansari without doing more than maiming a hostage?” M replied.

“Yes,” Bond growled, slipping his finger inside the guard and aiming for a shot through a young covered woman’s left shoulder and into the undecorated white wall behind her.

“Q, where are we in stopping their progress?”

“Almost there, sir. They have 6 encryptions, no, make that 10 now,” Bond could hear him smirking, “before they get to the central control. I  _told_  you, sir, to have city council replace the passwords after that—”

“ _Yes_ , Q, but is this entirely the right time for that discussion?”

Q huffed and returned to his mad typing.

“I’m setting up a rabbit hole for them—wait, what did they just do?”

“Q? Q? Status update.” M’s voice was quick and efficient in the worst way possible.

“They’ve leap-frogged the encryptions, going through a—oooh, clever girl.”

“They’ve two men on the team,” M reminded him.

“Yes, clever boys  _and_ clever girls. This has Maha’s finger smudges all over it. Let me—damn. They’re in.”

“Time for someone to pull a trigger,” Bond said, smirking and bearing down on his scope.

“Rather,” said M.

Bond lined up his shot as Q’s typing slowed, then stopped with a final click-click——click.

He let out his air and pressed the hair trigger. Al-Ansari when went down and everyone scattered—except for the second woman, tall lithe body still hunched over her keyboard, still tapping into it madly.

“There’s still a hacker at the table. I’m taking her now.”

Bond resighted and pulled down again. Her head snapped back, a projection of blood and white matter decorating the white wall behind where she had just been seated. Bond watched for a moment as the tactical team who’d been waiting in the hallway dashed into the room and pinned all of the remaining hackers to the floor, ripping cords out of walls. He could hear the team leader shouting “Where’s the backup router?” through his headset.

Bond grinned in satisfaction as he watched the aspirational terrorists babble silent to his ears through the glass as a kind-faced tac officer started cutting down the hostages. Taking his hands away from the gun carefully, he glanced back at Q. Q was still staring at his computer screen, hands hovering over the keyboard, eyes a touch vacant.

Bond warred inside. A small part of him, so tiny for so many years but growing by millimeters and millimeters since he’d met this man, wanted to walk over and put a hand on his shoulder, maybe press a warm arm around him. The rest of him, the animal which had kept him alive and sane for years of danger and subterfuge, really wished Q’d cock-out and get back with the program.

While he decided, he glanced around the room. He noticed, for the first time since he checked the room for exits and intruders when he entered 48 minutes ago, it was simple and decorated in whites and yellows. There was a single narrow bed in the middle, a plain mahogany desk, and suspicious spatter on the walls. His eyes caught the back of Q’s head, and he groaned internally.

He stood, and put that unexpected hand on Q’s shoulder, squeezing his fingers in. Q immediately straightened and turned to glare at Bond.

“If you’re quite finished, may I return to our unit? I have tests I was in the middle of running when you found yourself unable to complete the mission without my help,”

Bond cocked his head and turned to go and pack up the gun. He heard the swish of Q’s bag, the slam of the door and he heard steps trot down the hallway before, they paused, and then returned. The door creaked.

“Ah,” said Q through a crack in the doorway. “I believe I have missed a cue.” Bond nodded lightly, focused on the gun he was mechanically field-stripping.

“Was that an invitation?” Q eased his hips through the door and bumped it open. 

Bond turned and strode, right into Q’s face. “Do you want it to be?” he said.

“Do you have a preference for what we do?” Q said, raising a hand to the 00’s shoulder. “I believe we have, say, 15 minutes before they expect us back,” checking his phone.

Bond fisted a hand in Q’s hair and crushed him back against the door, every part of his body pressing against Q’s but his lips, which he held back, a gasp away.

“I’d like to know what you taste like after a defeat,” and Q yanked himself away, shoving at Bond.

“Fuck you, you motherless son of a bitch.”

Bond turned, propping his hip on the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking, watching Q pace the length of the room and heel-face-turn to do it again.

“What the fuck makes you think you can say that to me? Me? Who’s saved your sorry ass no less than,” Q rolled his eyes, tapping his fingers against his thigh, “15 times, and that just this week?” He whirled to face Bond, messenger bag slapping his back as he leapt forward to fist his hands in Bond’s English leather jacket. “I, who have never once mocked your pathetic inability to conceive of a future where fingers pulling triggers are not the standard solution to global problems?” He tried to shake Bond to make his point, but only succeeded in shaking himself back and forth.

He up and to the side, “Well, that’s not entirely fair, I have often remarked on your luddite ways and technological failings, but never your failures within your own realm.” He was running out of steam, but still hanging off of Bond’s jacket. “And I never would because it’s cruel to do so.” He paused, eyes still far away. “As cruel as killing Maha for what she thought she had to do for her country. 

 _Ah_ , thought Bond,  _there it is._  He slid his hands up to Q’s gamer’s wrists and pulled him off his jacket. He walked them both to the bed, Q stepping gingerly backwards until his shins hit the bed, at which point Bond wrapped an arm around his shoulder, swept his leg back, and toppled them both on to the thin mattress, cushioning Q's head from the fall. Q kept talking, as Bond began taking him out of his clothes.

“Maha was special.” Bond nodded. He knew occasionally people were special, and he knew even better how those occasionally special people could be female. He had Q’s arm out of his overcoat and was working his way to the other side, fingers detouring to slip up and down his shirt-seams.

“I met her at the MENA Google hack-a-thon, and we kept in touch, creaming the smurfs who creeped on our Dota mod and fucking around in general. We Skyped through some of her final assignments in school—she was good. But when she started talking about the World Cup.”

Bond was surprised when he felt Q’s hand brush through his hair and he paused, wondering if this was a signal of disinterest. But Q just seemed to be looking for some additional tactile sensation, so Bond kept on with his mission, spreading the man’s legs and getting started on his zipper. Q kept tracing his fingers over Bond’s scalp, memorizing the indentations of his skull.

“I mean, great, a little football talk now and then between micro-heavy matches is fine, but it got, damaged.” He paused, and lifted his hips up for Bond to pull his skinny-cut slacks down. 

He looked Bond in the eye. “She kept talking about how 2022 was the time for Qatar to take its place in the world, and how fucked it was that people were taking the piss out of her country.” Bond had gotten caught up in Q’s shoes.

He squeezed his hand under the tight cuff and found the right lace to pull. Q was still talking. “She went offline for a while there, her last tweet on her normal account came from somewhere near Dharan, and then, nothing. When she came back, she turned all of her profile pics to her as a baby.” Bond took a moment away tracing Q’s newly freed ankle to cock his head.

“Conservative Muslim women in the Gulf use photos of themselves as kids as their online profiles, because it’s not on to have photos of themselves in general, but even less ok to have photos of themselves as they currently look. It’s a modesty thing—once you’re old enough to get married, you should keep your looks private. Anyway, before she’d always just had her current long-arm up, but then with the baby pictures, and whenever we caught each other online and I tried to pull her into a game, she wouldn’t concentrate, just ranted at me through my earbuds about the spoiling British empire.” Q’s squirming stopped and Bond paused his slow trek up the other man’s inner leg. 

His breath hitched. “I reported her.” Bond nodded, moving to the outside of Q’s thigh. “I  _had_ to,” Q insisted and Bond hummed against his hip. “She had enough skills to take down a mid-level developing economy’s stock exchange, or completely mess up one of my mornings. She was  _dangerous_.”

Another hitching breath, and Bond laid his face down on Q’s rapidly moving stomach, pressing down and feeling the smaller man’s pulse push back. In a small voice he heard, “I still kept after her, tried to get her to stop talking crazy. I  _had_ to,” he said, this time firmer. He took another breath and abruptly refocused on the situation at hand.

“Where are my pants?” Bond smirked and rose up to press a kiss into his mouth. Q responded eagerly, but mumbled through their sliding tongues, “Did you do all this while I was talking?”

“A man needs to multitask when he’s only given 15 minutes.” Bond said, sliding a hand down to Q’s dick and wrapping his hand around it. Q arched up unrepentantly, sucking a breath in through his teeth and Bond thrust his thigh between Q’s parted legs. Q gasped and rose impossibly further, head and eyes rolling back. Bond rode him up and back down pressing his mouth in tighter to the quartermaster’s, swallowing down a gasp and then—a wince?

Bond pulled back and Q grimaced apologetically. 

“Chafing. Let me get you out of those.” And he sat up, grasping the edges of Bond’s coat in two hands and yanking it back. Bond shrugged it off, helping, and when Q saw he had that set covered he started in on Bond’s absurdly white starched button-down shirt.

“So many buttons,” he muttered, but redoubled his efforts while Bond tried to distract him with a loose-gripped hand job. Q growled in the back of his throat as he pulled out the final button and pushed the shirt off Bond’s shoulders. The pants were much faster, just a slipped-button and a smoothly pulled-down zipper. Bond toed off his own shoes.

He paused for a moment, enjoying the bounty laid out before him. Pale, English skin, dark hair around a lovely cock, thin hips and wiry leg hair, arms.—

“Don’t just look, get on with it,” Q said. He tried to remember if Q liked to have his hair pulled, and decided life is nothing without risk.

He got a good handful and was just tightening his fingers when he lost all sensation in his fingertips. Q looked up at him innocently, thumb and nail still digging into the tendons of his hand.

“I’d prefer to move onto the main course, if you don’t mind.” He writhed his hips up, bringing their cocks into briefest alignment before collapsing them onto the bed. Bond, fully in the game now, bore down on him, slipping his fingers between them and pulling him in tandem. He mouthed the juncture of Q’s shoulder and neck where the sun fell on it through the window, licking the stark bone and enjoying the other man’s muffled moans. He had them going in a good rhythm when he switched sides, Q turning his face to the other side obligingly. He heard him gasp and then the man underneath him went cold.

Bond glanced to the side and saw—Maha, scarf slipped back and face veiled in blood, on the table, unmoved until the interrogations of the living were completed in the apartment across the way. Q was a mass of tension, fingers hard on Bond’s sides, breath coming fast and shallow, barely getting in before shoving back out again. He stilled his entire body as well, moving his fingers until his hand clutched Q’s hip. He lowered his head between Q’s eyes and his dead friend and said:

“I had to. She knew you would be there at her death if she took it to London and she never knew the pain of what she caused. It was not a bad death.” Q’s eyes flew to where he thought Bond’s where, but buried his face in his neck.

“Friends die. But their voices stay in your head.” He pushed Q’s face to the other side with his head, somewhere between redirection and nuzzling. He muttered, “Now, can we finish this fuck? I do have other assignments.” Q nodded, slicked a hand up Bond’s sweaty back, and twitched his hips up in interest slowly renewing interest.

“Yes, let’s.” Bond kept his face on the side of the window, and Q did not try to glance over again. Bond slid to kneel at the far side of the bed, and pulled Q’s legs with him, leaving his back to the open window. He brushed his stubbled cheek against the man’s thighs, hand groping for a rubber from his discarded jacket’s pocket and slipping it on before diving in, tongue thick with precum and sweat, twisting and generally being his distracting best. It took Q a five or ten breaths, but after a particularly athletic twist-pull-suck-and-down-again he was gasping, hands grasping feebly and randomly along Bond’s neck and shoulders, fluttering from one to the other in utter distraction.

The agent’s hair was pure gold in the sunlight, his rough hands gripping Q’s thigh’s until the blood fled, leaving pale white marks Q knew would turn to bruises before tonight. He watch him rock back and forth on his knees, and dove into the sight, letting the man and the sensations he was wringing from him take everything away.

Q came in gasps and bursts and filthy swear words Bond had only heard him mutter during boss fights. When the last shiver ran through him, Q ducked his head, took a deep breath, and slid to his knees beside Bond. He shoved the larger man up, up onto the bed, and then crawled over to his laptop bag, where he did something mysterious with pockets and returned, carrying a wrapped rubber with one he had been wearing mysteriously gone. He claimed Bond’s former place, pumping him for a moment before sliding the slightly slimy rubber on. Then he got to work. His dark head bobbing between Bond’s thighs, Bond kept his hand to himself, first laying them relaxedly on the bedspread, then tightening them as Q demonstrated his keen memory for detail, particularly relating to teeth, then fisting the covers so tightly he expected to find the stitching transferred to his palm.

He came in the man’s mouth, stomach muscles clenching and breath hissing through his teeth as he rode it out, Q pumping all the while. When he pulled himself together, he found himself rubber-less and his partner half-way squirmed into his discarded skinny slacks. Feeling cheated of the reverse strip-tease, he rose and began redressing himself as well. He came face-to-face with Q on the floor as the smaller man reached under the bed for a lost shoe, and slid his hand behind his head, pulling him in for an open-mouthed kiss. They finished dressing in silence.

When Q was fully dressed he stood with his messenger bag slung low on the swell of his back. He reached behind him and pulled out a piece of plastic and metal, flipping it over to Bond. 

“I brought you an upgrade. A near earpiece, now waterproof and specced for heights of up to 100 kilometers above sea level.” He swung the door open and paused, head turned back slightly. “So I’ll always be the voice in your head.”


End file.
